My Cardboard Balcony

Candor by Belinda Roddie Disassemble every last word I said, piece by piece, brick by rusty brick, and you will find crumbling color in each of them: Shade, hue, vibe stretched past my mouth like aging floss, like decaying yo-yo string. You can stir every cube into your cup of bitter tea, but the taste won't be any sweeter. I don't offer sugar to rival the smoke: Because I mean what I say. And I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. And I say what I mean.

We go to the pet store, just in time to see a young woman with two parrots - one perched on each shoulder. We wonder aloud if she's a pirate, and when she hears our speculation, she laughs and turns to reveal the eyepatch. Instantly, you go red, and you begin apologizing profusely. But she tells us not to worry about it, that she gets those questions and comments all the time. "If I had a pirate ship," she confides in us, "I'd call it the Featherbrain."